Fearing the Shadows
by Diamroyal
Summary: Just figures. A soldier I remain.


Title: Fearing the Shadows 1/1   
Author: Diamroyal   
Category: Angst?   
Pairings: none   
Warnings: angst, thoughts of suicide. Reference to violence.   
Disclaimer: Not mine. All owned by the various agencies that have paid good money to own it. It'd be rather rude of me to imply that I /did/ own it, don't you think?

How many times do you have to do something before it becomes second nature? How many times before your fingers, your hands, your arms are in /exactly/ the right place at the right time? It's something I can't tell you. But my body probably could, because I've found, after years, that those reactions, that knowledge that was once ingrained in my muscles—are still there.

Sometimes, I realize it...but mostly I don't remember. I forget. There's nothing like walking through a department store, minding your own business, one minute. Then, the next, you're crouched, and your "service" weapon's taken out all the visible cameras, getting you offa' tape...just 'cause the power went out, and set off the fire alarm. Now /that/ was an interesting one to explain. Made me remember, though. Strange looks, and holstering a gun in a dark store in the midst of people...I could feel the lack of weight to the gun, now.

Funny about /that/ gun. It's the same one it's always been, hasn't changed in over six years. The thing's got more scratches and dents than a twenty-year old hunk-a-junk car, it really does. How many other guns do /you/ know of that've been blown up repeatedly, gone through most of two wars, and then, never put down? The thing's never really left my freakin' body, I swear. Had to make special allowances for me to keep it.

The barrel's so worn it's no longer perfectly true, but I'll not give up on it yet. I'll just start aiming a little more to the left, a little up, and the bullet's'll still make it there just fine, trust me. Me and that gun, we're leftovers from the past, and it's hard to put either one of us down, just like the past never lets go, no matter /how/ fucked up it is.

God, may he rot in hell, knows that. Maybe he also knows how I tried, I really did. I got rid of the damn thing, buried it, actually. And not three months later I was digging the fucker back up. Just figures. A soldier I remain. Can you hear me laugh? Or do you just see me shakin' my fuckin' head, some dejected "wannabe soldier"?

That's bullshit too. So we weren't /true/ soldiers. Yeah, right, fuck off to you too, and did you see the big-fuckin' donkey on its way out? 'Cause I missed his ass. Soldier's a soldier, no matter if it's /official/ or not. More wars have been fought and won by those impossible to deem "soldier" than anyone would think. And I guarantee they were doing the fighting for a better fucking reason than any /soldier/, any day. Revolution's always like that—but only if you're on the winning side, right?

Of course I've done those interviews, the anonymous one's they did, for all of us, just, "meet the pilots, no, sorry, they won't give out their names/faces"...they always ask me how many men I've killed.

How the fuck should I know? I mean, how many men /were/ on that one ship, back in...was it April? Or was it already May? How many were killed that night by me? That bullet, right there...was that /me/, or did one of the /others/ get to him /first/? 'Cause I can guarantee he was dead, it was only a matter of place, weapon and killer.

It's silly, those questions. I can only thank god that they couldn't hear me laugh when I see them, 'cause they'd surely start calling for blood, and I...I don't think I'd let them have mine. Now, no. And I don't really think...ever.

See, having /them/ call for it, and having /me/ call for it—it's two different things. 'Cause I've already decided, I have. It'll be soon.

Should I tell anyone, do you think?

Nah. I'll let them have my silence. It's something precious to me, and they know it. I hope they don't do something foolish.

No. They'll know, that's just the way it is, with all of us, anymore.

I don't want to jump at the shadows anymore, because I don't want to be right about them. I've been too right, too many times.


End file.
